


corrupt motherfucker

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Illustrated, M/M, Obedience, Orders, authority kink, what do you mean authority kink isnt a tag ITS A THING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 13:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16086707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: “Suck my dick,” Grif says, a witty and cutting repartee.Simmons stills in the middle of writing something, the pen scratching stopping abruptly. He looks up at Grif. Grif waits for his face to twist and for his mouth to spitfuck youbefore he either storms out or turns back to his work, depending on his mood. He continues not looking angry or disgusted.





	corrupt motherfucker

**Author's Note:**

> The illustration was done by the awesome [whatevergetsyouoffatnight!](https://whatevergetsyouoffatnight.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!

Simmons is a grumpy petty bitch about Grif’s promotion at Rat’s Nest, which should come as a surprise to literally no one. Grif’s the only one there to be quietly entirely unsurprised, however. Everyone else in Rat’s Nest is a stranger. It’s annoying. Not having anyone to make eye contact with, or even just quietly share the same feeling of non-surprise with, when Simmons does something incredibly Simmon-ish is annoying.

Simmons being snappish all of the the time instead of eventually unwinding to talk about dumb shit with him is annoying.

Simmons not constantly glued to his side is annoying.

Simmons operating on a different schedule from him is annoying.

Simmons sleeping in a room on the other side of the base is annoying.

But Simmons following his orders without question is hilarious. It happens kind of by accident the first time, Grif asking Simmons for something except he didn’t phrase it as a request. Not because he likes bossing people around, just because he’s a rude fuck and he was groggy with waking up from a nap five minutes ago. Simmons had _hopped_ to it. And after he’d promptly handed Grif whatever fuck the thing had been, he can’t even remember it now, along with a snappy _sir_ he’d suddenly gone stiff and squeaky and embarrassed as if he’d just realized what he’d just done, which had made _Grif_ realize what he’d just done.

He’d tentatively tried out the ordering thing a few more times since then, and every fucking time Simmons falls for it just like the first time, except sometimes he doesn’t even realize what he just did and get all flustered. It’s…

It’s hilarious. Nothing else. No other hot squirmy emotions involved when Simmons says _sir_ like he means it, nope. That’d be weird as fuck.

And then he thinks, _hey I’m the fucking boss now,_ and he changes Simmons’ schedule to match his without having to ask or manipulate or make excuses to _anyone,_ and then he makes Simmons his roommate too while he’s at it.

“Grif, what the fuck,” Simmons says shrilly. “You can’t just do that. What were you thinking? The others are already saying--”

“What are the others saying?” he says with the stupid kind of innocence he’s best at. He knows exactly what the others are saying. It turns out that men in their twenties and thirties gossip as badly as nosy housewives, and they aren’t subtle, discreet, or have a decent grasp of volume control, or maybe they just think Grif’s hard of hearing for some reason.

It doesn’t matter what the others are saying. Grif and Simmons could never convince them of otherwise, he can tell just by the way they smile and snicker when they whisper. And their opinions don’t matter for shit anyways. They’re idiots and strangers. He could never make Simmons see that, though. Simmons lives and breathes other people's opinion of him.

Simmons flushes. “Nothing.”

Grif knew Simmons wouldn’t be able to bring himself to repeat what he’s heard. There: conversation hacked. Shortcut found. Hard unnecessary part avoided. There’s no point in having that discussion anyways.

He then deputizes some guy’s bed (“But where am I gonna sleep, Sargeant!?” “Just share your roommate's bed with him? Duh.”), and makes two other guys carry it into his and Simmons’ room for him. He’s gone mad with power, but, like, in a chill way, and it’s definitely never ever going to come back and bite him in the ass.

He gives Simmons his paperwork, deputizes some guy’s snacks, and calls it a day and veges out in his room for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Something that _does_ come back to bite him in the ass: him not firmly and immediately putting a stop to the thing where Simmons obeys his orders instantly without thinking. Grif letting himself enjoy it, and not just in a ribbing teasing platonic bro way. Ignoring the feeling in his chest that happens whenever he looks at Simmons when he smiles, like it would just go away if he didn’t think about it, when instead it had flourished and grown and strengthened and deepened without him around to stomp it down and pull it out at the roots. Like a climbing plant that decides to envelop the entire house when neglected and forgotten, growing the windows shut and being just a huge inconvenience in general.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Simmons says in response to something dumb and lazy Grif said, partly because he couldn’t be fucked to come up with a better response, partly because he’s casually poking for a reaction, and partly because he’s dumb and lazy.

They’re alone in Grif’s “office”. It is actually an actual office, which the last sargeant did actually use to do sargeant stuff in, but Grif does air quotes around the word both in his head and when he uses it in actual conversation, because he has done literally almost no actual work since he got here. Not because there isn’t a need. He just doesn’t feel like it. And what’s the point of power if you can’t use it to do absolutely nothing? The only reason he’s here now, in his “office”, is because he supposes he should put the bare minimum effort in to _pretend_ to be working at least, and also this is where Simmons is.

He’s dragged the chair from the secretary’s desk outside of the office inside and has arranged it so that he’s sitting across from Grif at his desk, so that they can look up and meet each other’s eyes whenever. He’s doing Grif’s paperwork for him, without being asked, just because unfinished paperwork makes him itch, apparently. The secretary position is empty. Grif could promote him to it, if he wanted to. No one could stop him. Simmons basically already does the job anyways.

 _Secretary Simmons,_ he thinks. _My secretary._ And then he thinks better of it and forcibly shunts his train of thought off of those particular tracks.

“Suck my dick,” Grif says, a witty and cutting repartee.

Simmons stills in the middle of writing something, the pen scratching stopping abruptly. He looks up at Grif. Grif waits for his face to twist and for his mouth to spit _fuck you_ before he either storms out or turns back to his work, depending on his mood. He continues not looking angry or disgusted. He stands up. He circles the desk. He leans over, plants a hand on Grif’s chest, and shoves him and his wheeled chair back. He rolls for a foot until he bumps against the wall.

“Simmons?” he says.

“Yes sir,” Simmons says, in that completely genuine way, except there’s something more to his voice this time. Grif feels the familiar, reflexive response roll through him at the sound of those particular words said in that particular tone delivered from this particular person directed at him in particular. The sole context in which those words are-- significant. Something to play over in his mind.

And then Simmons goes to his knees in front of Grif in the space he made between him and the desk and confused panic paralyzes him where he sits. Simmons promptly and deftly starts unzipping and unbuttoning Grif’s pants with an extremely serious expression on his face, anticipation leaking out at the edges.

“Um?” he says, his voice high and somehow breaking twice on that one syllable. And then Simmons reaches into his pants, grabs his dick, and his tongue is basically glued to the roof of his mouth as he clutches desperately at the arm rests and goes “hnng!?”

The door isn’t even _locked._ Simmons is the ‘I’m definitely straight’ _champion._

Simmons’ eyes flick up to him quickly, and then back to his dick as he obediently pops the head of it into his mouth with no fanfare or hesitation, like-- like if he gives Grif time to think he’ll take it back or _he’ll_ have enough time to chicken out--

Simmons’ mouth slides down, and along with the drag of his lips all of the thoughts in Grif’s head are pulled out of his head, left to float away, forgotten and irrelevant. A tight wound up groan slips through Grif’s grit teeth. One of Simmons’ hands is on the base of Grif’s dick, the other sliding against his thigh as his eyes falls shut with concentration.

An obedient eager go getter, sucking his sargeants cock on command.

It’s not gay if your commanding officer ordered you to do it, he thinks hysterically.

Simmons’ mouth, that mouth that keeps tripping up Grif’s thoughts in daily life, that his eyes return to rest on like its got its own gravity, is a tight seal around him.

This is so fucked up and weird and _such_ a bad idea. Grif has to put a stop to it. Now.

“Touch yourself,” he says instead, because it’s too late, Simmons’ mouth is already on him. Not even they can excuse their way out of this one, so Grif might as well get as much out of the situation as he can before it’s over and he has to remember that there’s such a thing as consequences.

Simmons makes a sound around his dick, like he wants to say _yes sir_ but can’t, and it _pains_ him, but then he abruptly stops, flushing, as he probably realizes that he just sounds like he’s moaning hungrily around Grif’s cock. Grif’s hips twitch into the wet giving warmth of Simmons’ mouth without his sayso. It was a good noise. He wants it back.

 _“Do it,”_ he says, and Simmons does, pressing his hands against the bulge of his own pants, grinding down on it desperately.

Grif remembers that he’s in charge and that if he wants something, no one can stop him. It’s a heady and empowering and faintly uncomfortable fact that sinks into him like diving into the ocean feels. It feels so greedy and overconfident to ask for-- to _demand_ more. Any moment now, Simmons is gonna snap to his senses and recoil away, he’s going to leave, he’s not going to talk to him or meet his eyes or breath sleep soft in the dark in their room with him.

 _Take everything he’s willing to give you,_ he thinks, and he _is_ greedy and gluttonous, because he says, “Moan, Private.” Strict and as impatient as he can make it around the heady reckless awe growing in his chest, just like he thinks Simmons likes it.

Simmons moans without hesitation, a deep flush traveling up his neck, his cheeks, his ears. Grif can _feel_ it on his dick, and it’s heaven and _Simmons._

He’s reaching out to touch him without even making the decision, hand stroking through his short hair like he’s confirming that he’s real, this is real and happening, like the laving of his tongue on his dick isn’t enough confirmation on its own somehow.

And then he thinks, is this something a bossy commanding officer would do? Gently stroke his hair? Probably not. And that’s what Simmons wants, isn’t it? Someone that every bone in his body is telling him to suck up to finally telling him to just suck _him,_ here, do this easy straightforward thing that you can’t even fuck up by getting nervous and saying something stupid because your mouth is too full for you to talk and I’ll be happy, I’ll be pleased with you. Good job, Simmons.

This is something that Simmons is desperate enough for that he immediately went to his knees at the first opportunity, even though it came from _Grif._ He kind of wants to… make it good for him. Make it everything he’s fantasized about.

That awful inconvenient feeling in his chest grows, stirs, like flowers are budding and blooming and tickling the inside of his lungs and heart. Ugh.

Slowly, he tightens his hold on Simmons’ hair, eyes fixed on his face. He pulls on his scalp. Simmons makes a high noise that makes Simmons flush with mortification, eyes squeezed shut, and makes Grif have to take some slow careful breaths to stop himself from doing something stupid, like coming before Simmons has gotten to have enough fun, or saying something sentimental and revealing that a bossy commanding officer definitely wouldn’t.

Say something. Something fitting, something that would come out of the mouth of a man who always thinks he’s right and everyone under his command should follow his every whim and doesn’t give a single damn what they feel or think about it.

“Is that all you can take?” he asks, voice hoarse, mouth dry, skin too hot. Simmons has already taken almost all of him, it’s enough but-- selfish. Simmons wants selfish, he’s pretty sure. He wants to be useful, to work for it and succeed. “Come on. Another inch.”

Simmons, breathing heavily through his nose, goes deeper the next time he bobs down. Up, and then deeper still the next time he takes in the length of Grif into his mouth. His eyes are beading with tears of exertion. Grif wants to say: relax. It’s fine. This is so much already. Thank you.

He holds his tongue until Simmons is at the root of him, and then he says, “Good.” Clipped, but approving. Kind of shaky with desire, but what can you do. _Simmons_ has _his_ dick in his _mouth._

Simmons _whines,_ rubbing at his own cock through his pants desperately. Grif feels suddenly dizzy at the sight, at how many things he could tell Simmons to do now and how likely it is that he’d _actually do them._ Too many choices branch out before him, and he’s paralyzed. He wants, he wants so much, what should he--?

 _Simmons_ wants to serve.

“Fucking _jack off_ already,” he says. And then, belatedly, “Private.”

Simmons shoves his hand down his own pants while his mouth is still on Grif, and Grif could die, holy shit. Simmons’ arm starts moving, and his tongue and his usually sour mouth turned sweet grow less coordinated, more sloppy and clumsy, rhythm off. That’s fine, that’s good. He wants to last longer than him, wants to be there for him until he’s finished. And it’s kinda fucking hot too, in its own way.

“Good,” he says again, floundering for praise that doesn’t sound sappy, grasping for words, his voice a rasp. He keeps forgetting to breathe, for seconds at a time. “You’re doing-- you’re performing,” a breathless rattle of an exhalation as Simmons thrusts into his own hand, his lips shiny and wet and kissable and _occupied,_ “... excellently.”

Simmons’ pupils are blown, his eyes keep slipping shut with concentration and pleasure. Grif’s attention keeps getting stuck at his fucking _eyelashes_ for some damn reason, like an insect in honey. A shudder runs through him at Grif’s words.

 _Please,_ Grif has to bite his tongue not to say. _Please come already, I can’t hold on much longer like this…_

The person in charge doesn’t have to say please, and the kind of person Simmons desperately wants to blow doesn’t _want_ to say please either. Grif wants to be what Simmons wants. He can be that, just for now, just this. He can do this for him.

Simmons blowing him for it is a _very_ big selfish bonus.

“Private,” he pants, and more words should come after that, the magical bullet that’ll be what tips Simmons over the edge. The perfect words for him to hear, exactly what he wants to hear. Orders, praise? He already did that. Something else, something different. “Your mouth,” he says slowly, thoughtfully tasting the words as he picks them as carefully as his scattered overheated brain can manage, “was made for me to fuck into.”

Simmons _chokes,_ breathing through his nose interrupted. A groan tips out of Grif, as inexorable as the tide. But self entitled bosses don’t get self consciousness, and he’s too warm for it anyways. His shame is being boiled out of him by his hot blood and Simmons’ hot mouth.

“You should do this every day,” he says. “Every time you want to bother me with something, get on your knees instead.” He thrusts his hips so languorously that it’s almost more a lazy, hedonistic roll of the hips, luxuriating in every inch of Simmons’ mouth, the feel and _availability_ of him. He’s letting him do this, fuck. “Or your _hands_ and knees.”

Simmons can’t seem to _stop_ making noises now. He wishes he could hear them clearly, without removing the tight clutch of Simmons around his dick. He could do that if he were fucking him.

“Spread for me,” he says, “dripping and prepared for me.”

Could he order Simmons to let him fuck him, he wonders, and feels his self control start to shatter at the thought. Could he? Would Simmons listen? Would he?

“Would you do as I say?” he asks. “Would you be a good soldier?”

Simmons moans loudly and nods as eagerly as he can around his mouthful.

Grif would never be able to stop himself from coming in response to that. He isn’t strong.

Simmons tries to swallow his come like a good soldier, and ends up choking on it like an inexperienced virgin instead, coughing so it drips down his chin, tears in his eyes, his face flushed red, wet mouth panting and open. Grif feels weightless looking at him, stars in his eyes. Simmons’ forehead falls onto Grif’s thigh as he keeps jerking himself off, concentrating just on himself now. Grif’s so sensitive he can acutely feel Simmons’ hair tickle the skin of his dick, his breath washing over it as he breathes shakily, still so close.

Maybe Simmons had held off on his own orgasm until Grif came first as well. To be a good obedient helpful soldier.

Grif, feeling dreamy with afterglow and Simmons still touching him and touching himself, strokes Simmons’ hair even if it isn’t the asshole commanding officer thing to do.

_“Grif,”_ Simmons cries out brokenly as he comes, instead of _sir._

The inconvenient feeling is going to break him from the inside, a rose bush grown so large it’s going to burst out from him like a bird from its egg.

Grif is absolutely never ever going to stop abusing his power as sargeant. He’s going to be the most corrupt motherfucker there ever was. This absolutely isn’t going to come back to bite him in the ass.


End file.
